


Doses of Home

by brokenlittleboy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s11e17 Red Meat, Fluff, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Post Episode: s11e17 Red Meat, Protective Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-30 15:13:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6429517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenlittleboy/pseuds/brokenlittleboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place almost immediately after 'Red Meat.' Dean's worried about Sam. Sam's worried about Dean. Comforting ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doses of Home

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for madebyme_x's request over at littlebro. Hope you like it <3

Sam steps out of his room, freshly showered and loaded up on painkillers, to find Dean casually loitering in the hall.

 

Dean looks up when Sam walks out, and looks down just as quickly. He’s got his phone held in his hands. He holds it up, blinking and clearing his throat. He’s not looking Sam in the eye. “I, had a, uh, issue with my phone,” he says roughly, his shoulders tense. He plays with the phone in his hand. 

 

Sam could always read Dean’s tells.

 

“Where’s my hug?” Sam asks, and Dean finally looks up, eyes widening. He shoves his “broken” phone into his pocket.

 

“Um, what?”

 

“My semi-annual ‘you-almost-died-but-thank-god-you’re-alright hug,” Sam says, holding his arms out. “Feels kinda lackluster without it, really.”

 

Dean’s eyes go from Sam’s face down to his abdomen, and his face completely shutters over. “You should eat something,” Dean says. “Get your fluids up.”

 

He walks away, heading down the hall toward the kitchen. “Chicken soup, right? With extra broth?”

 

Sam is flattered that Dean has successfully engaged mother hen mode, but the answer Dean gave him is taking it a little bit overboard.

 

“Wait, seriously?” he barks, chasing after Dean. “You won’t hug me because you think you’ll hurt me? That’s nice, Dean, but I’m not that fragile.”

 

Dean whirls around on his heel, catching Sam by surprise. They almost bump into each other, and Sam can feel Dean’s heated breath on his face.

 

“Yeah, well you weren’t the one who wasn’t there when it happened,” Dean growls. “You’re not the one who saw it after.”

 

Sam’s heart was never that hard to begin with, but it softens into absolute mush as he listens to Dean’s cracking voice. “Dean,” he says, plush-soft, using his dopey puppy eyes as a last-ditch weapon.

 

He watches Dean’s walls come down, one at a time, a myriad of expressions flicking across Dean’s face like a glitching computer. Dean bites his lip, and Sam thinks  _ fuck it  _ and moves forward, wrapping his arms around his older brother and sighing. It’s been way too damn long since they’ve just taken a moment for themselves, taken a moment for each other.

 

It takes a couple of pregnant beats, but Dean’s arms wrap around him, barely-there at first, before Dean’s confidence grows and he almost strangles Sam, pulling in a ragged breath and burying his nose in Sam’s shoulder.

 

“Hey, it’s fine,” Sam whispers, closing his eyes and drinking in Dean’s warmth, Dean’s presence. “M’not dead, dude. We’re both okay. We’ll both be okay.”

 

Dean gives him one last, rough squeeze before pulling back, his touch lingering on Sam’s arms. “Well,” croaks, futilely trying to blink away the sheen on his eyes, “well, good.”

 

“Yeah.” Sam grins at him. “We’re good, Dean.”

 

Dean blinks up at him, his face smoothing out and looking ten years younger. He tries to smile at Sam but fails. “You almost weren't though, you know that? After all of this--you almost weren’t, and if I thought you were fucking dead and the pills didn’t do any good and I couldn’t-”

 

“Pills,” Sam breaks in, grabbing Dean’s wrist. “What about pills?”

 

Dean’s face has gone pink from his breathless ramble. He’s trembling under Sam’s grasp. “I didn’t wanna lie to you.”

 

“Then tell me.”

 

Dean runs a hand down his face. “I went to see Billy to ask her to bring you back,” he says.

 

Sam’s brow furrows. “You went to see…?”

 

It slaps him in the face. The blood rushes away, leaving him lightheaded. “Dean, you didn’t,” he says in a faint voice, “tell me you didn’t.”

 

Dean just shrugs. He hasn’t looked away from Sam’s face since they started talking. It’s like he needs to keep checking, keep making sure. Sam would think it’s ridiculous, except he knows exactly how Dean feels right now. 

 

“They brought me back,” Dean finally manages, “so you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

 

Sam lets out a breath. “Bull. You’re hurt, too,” he growls. “You’ve got to tell me when you’re injured, Dean. I’ve got to know.”

 

“Now you do, Sammy, okay? I just--I’m beat, man. I am so fucking tired.” Dean sags against the wall, and lets Sam see the wear on his face for the first time. 

 

Sam’s throat feels thick and full. They’ve had countless close calls, sure, but this time had struck a raw nerve with both of them, had spoken leagues about possibilities and truths neither of them wanted to consider.

 

“You promised me chicken soup,” Sam rasps. “Whaddaya say we both grab a nice steaming bowl and catch up on  _ Game of Thrones _ ?”

 

Dean slow-blinks at him, like a cat, a genuine grin slowly breaking through the darkness on his face. “Sounds like a plan,” he says.

 

Sam slings an arm around Dean and they walk together in a comfortable silence, broken only by quiet breaths and little movements. Dean pushes Sam away when they get into the kitchen, gently herding Sam down into a chair and warning him to _ stay there or else, you hear?  _

 

He disappears for a moment, muttering something about supplies, and comes back with the heavy, woolen blanket from the trunk of the Impala, draping it over Sam’s shoulders.

 

Sam flushes warm, grabbing at the material of the blanket and curling it tight around his body. It smells like home, and he drinks it in deep. He watches Dean bustle about in the kitchen, and soon enough, they’ve both got two steaming bowls and glasses of milk. Honest-to-god milk. 

 

Sam takes a sip of his soup and sighs. He’s brought back to thousands of different days from his childhood that were just like this, down to the rickety table and the chicken soup with Dean’s personal touch. Sam still doesn’t know what that is. All that he knows is he used to make chicken soup from the can at Stanford, and again during those awful years when he was alone, and it was never like Dean’s. Even Dean’s stolen hoodies stopped smelling the same shortly after he lifted them.

 

He’s not thinking about that right now. He’s thinking about how Dean is safe and alive now, how they’re both healing up. How they’re going to take a few days off and probably end up sleeping in the same bed by “accident,” huddling closer on the couch than strictly necessary.

 

After days like this past one, it’s what they both need, and Sam isn’t ashamed to admit it. Dean deserves a few good days, a few strong doses of home. 

 

Sam watches Dean glance over at him and smiles back. Dean’s ankle kicks against his under the table. Dean’s shoulders relax fractionally. It’s something.

  
Sam is more than happy to give Dean the doses he needs.

**Author's Note:**

> I fucking loved that episode. I want to live in it forever. I'm so happy at all the fics popping up about it.
> 
> Thank you for reading, comments mean the world <3


End file.
